


Unchained Melody

by uraneia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Elvis Impersonator Derek, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Musicians, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uraneia/pseuds/uraneia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is an Elvis impersonator. Stiles is the sound and lighting engineer in charge of his show. Over sequins, hip swivels, and 50s ballads, they fall in love.</p><p> </p><p> <i>Derek’s grumpy eyebrows disappear under a mask of pure showmanship as his lip curls up and he does a—a thing with his hips and the microphone stand, wow, is it hot in here?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Memekon](http://memekon.tumblr.com), Barlowstreet, and a mild case of [whoops-that-doesn’t-say-what-I-thought-it-said](http://hatfulofcrazy.tumblr.com/post/66804290066/memekon-replied-to-your-post-guys-im-so-happy), I bring you:
> 
> Elvis impersonator Derek Hale.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: This isn’t even cheese. This is like artificial processed cheese food product. I’M NOT SORRY. Zero research has been done and no approximation of the reality of Vegas is intended.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> With thanks to [lupinus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinus) for the feedback.

The first time Stiles sees Derek Hale, he can’t decide whether to concentrate on the eyebrows or the sequins. Vegas is full of Elvis impersonators, though, and plenty more sequins besides, so eventually the eyebrows win out.

 

Stiles side-eyes Lydia. “Really?” Because this isn’t some low-rent off-the-strip venue they’re talking about. This is the goddamned Luxor, and she wants to put an Elvis impersonator on stage three nights a week?

 

Derek’s standing on the stage, scowling at the microphone. “Check,” he says, then winces at the feedback.

 

Stiles flinches. “Sorry!” he says over the PA, and adjusts the levels while Derek keeps muttering.

 

“Just _watch him_ ,” Lydia says with a roll of her eyes, and flicks the PA on again. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Hale.”

 

The admittedly ridiculously handsome guy at center stage looks over his shoulder and nods to Isaac, the boyish house drummer. Isaac twirls a drumstick and taps out a quick beat, and then Erica and Boyd jump in with bass and rhythm guitar and—

 

And Derek’s grumpy eyebrows disappear under a mask of pure showmanship as his lip curls up and he does a—a _thing_ with his hips and the microphone stand, _wow_ , is it hot in here?—and—

 

“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” he drawls, perfectly in tune, his hips never missing a beat.

 

Stiles’s mouth goes dry. “Oh.” Apparently this is why Lydia’s in charge of MGM Vegas group’s entertainment lineup. “My God.”

 

How the fuck is he supposed to do his job while watching that three nights a week?

 

Lydia reaches over, touches her index finger to his chin, and closes his mouth. “I’ll make sure you get his contact information so you can go over the lighting and pyrotechnic needs for the various set lists.”

 

Oh Lord, in what universe is it a good idea for Stiles to have _that guy_ ’s phone number? He sighs and hangs his head. “Thanks.”

 

*

 

Only in person, when he’s not, you know, _Elvis_ , Derek’s… okay. Well, he’s grumpy. He still does the lip-curl thing when Stiles makes a really good pun, though, so it’s not like he’s completely humorless. He’s professional, which makes him easy for Stiles to talk to; Stiles’s dad is a behind-the-scenes legend in live theater circles, and Stiles has been talking the lights/sound board/pyrotechnics talk since he was in diapers. They get the details of the show hammered out in no time, Stiles books them into a set of practice slots, and that’s that.

 

Or it would be.

 

Except that now on top of trying desperately to pay attention in the sound room while Derek plays Elvis, Stiles also finds himself eating lunch with him in the cafeteria, bitching to him about Carrot Top, and smiling as Derek fanboys David Copperfield.

 

Stiles supposes it could be worse. He can handle this, being friends with geeky grumpy Derek while lusting after the swoonworthy Elvis!Derek from afar. No problem. He never has to deal with Elvis!Derek up close, and regular Derek is easy to be around.

 

“Why Elvis, though?” Stiles finally asks one afternoon as they cool off in the Luxor’s pool. They’re in the middle of a November heatwave, and there are few enough hotel guests around that no one will care. Besides, like anyone would complain about seeing Derek shirtless. “I mean, you’re obviously talented enough to headline your own band.”

 

Derek flinches and his frankly ridiculous body curls in on itself. “I used to,” he says, sitting on the edge of the pool and staring down through the water at his toes. “We were looking at signing a major record deal.”

 

Something in Stiles’s head starts screeching out _Danger! Danger! Here there be dragons!_ but Stiles never listens to that voice anyway. He flops his arms against the side of the pool and sort of floats like that, belly-up. “So what happened?”

 

“My girlfriend took credit for all the songs we wrote together and got signed as a solo artist instead.”

 

Stiles gurgles and wonders if there’s any possible way to fit his foot further into his mouth. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek cuts him off sharply.

 

It’s obviously not fine. Stiles turns around and pats Derek on his extremely hairy knee. “Come on, let me buy you an ice cream to make it up to you.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes with nowhere approaching his usual enthusiasm. “No dairy on show nights, Stiles. You know that.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, mucus production, whatever,” Stiles says, hoisting himself out of the pool. His trunks sag a little as he does; apparently he forgot to tie them. Oh well, Derek’s probably not going to judge him. He reaches for his towel. “We’ll make yours a popsicle.”

 

Derek huffs, but he lets Stiles buy him a popsicle anyway.

 

*

 

Somehow Stiles takes to hanging out with Derek and the house band after performances too, in Derek’s dinky dressing room that’s haunted by the ghosts of Elvis costume sequins past. Or else an extremely glittery spirit. Honestly, this is Vegas; nothing surprises Stiles anymore.

 

While Derek showers off sweat and stage makeup, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica have squished into the love seat and arm chair someone shoehorned into the back of the dressing room and are having a heated argument about something Stiles doesn’t care about. Stiles has his nose buried in _Wired_ as he tries to figure out whether he should bother upgrading to PS4 or wait a few months for all the bugs to get ironed out, when the water shuts off and Derek mutters, quietly, “Fuck.”

 

Stiles picks up the towel from the vanity and holds it out without looking up from his magazine.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Mm.” Honestly, it’s not like there’s not a hook right beside the shower cubicle. Derek could also just, you know, not let people into his dressing room until he’s done showering, but apparently his time as an Elvis impersonator and the fact that he’s built like Wolverine have cured him of any body shyness.

 

At least he doesn’t use the toilet while they’re there. That would be weird, seeing as there isn’t an actual bathroom door.

 

“Hey, do you play video games?”

 

There’s a wet thump as Derek’s used towel hits the shower floor. Stiles turns to the next page, a comparative review of the Xbox One.

 

“I used to.”

 

Stiles reads his tone carefully and decides it means _but I sold all my stuff when my band broke up and I moved to Vegas to be an Elvis impersonator_. “Wanna come over Sunday and kill some zombies?” Then he remembers Boyd, Isaac, and Erica, and lifts his head enough to include them in the invite, careful not to turn to his left.

 

Erica shrugs. “I’m in.”

 

Boyd nods. “Me too.”

 

“I don’t play,” Isaac says, “but I don’t mind spectating. I’ll bring the guacamole.”

 

Hell yes. Stiles knew he liked Isaac for a reason. “Derek?”

 

“Like I’d say no to homemade guacamole.”

 

The sound of the shower curtain being pushed back alerts Stiles to the fact that it is now safe to look. No more Elvis!Derek, just plain old regular Derek in one of his boring henleys and his admittedly tight as fuck jeans. But he’s not scowling, so Stiles takes that as a win.

 

*

 

Sunday goes off without a hitch. Isaac is apparently some kind of kitchen savant on top of being a pretty boss drummer, and he brings his own homemade tortilla chips to go with the guacamole, and they basically spend fifteen minutes eating it all without speaking lest someone else eat more chips than they do. Afterward, Erica sprawls on the sofa and undoes the top button of her jeans and whines about a food baby while simultaneously kicking Stiles’s ass at zombie killing.

 

Stiles’s gamer pride is bruised. At least he holds a narrow margin of victory over Boyd and Derek.

 

By nine thirty they’re all videogamed out, though, and they lounge around Stiles’s comfy living room with MTV on in the background.

 

“You ever wish you were famous?” Erica asks Derek idly. She’s sitting on the floor, leaning her head back against the couch Derek and Stiles are sprawled on. Stiles is squashed sideways somehow with his legs over Derek’s, his feet over the end of the couch.

 

Stiles tries not to freeze at the question, but he feels Derek’s thighs tense under his legs.

 

Stiles says, “Dude, have you seen that sign Lydia had them put up?” You can’t drive down the strip without seeing a giant billboard of [Derek as Elvis](http://hatfulofcrazy.tumblr.com/post/67075056472) with the caption _The King is Back._ “He plays three shows a week at the Luxor. Maybe he’s not on MTV”—he jerks his head at the television—“but it’s not like they play much music anymore anyway.”

 

Derek squeezes his ankle, and he flushes. “I did once. Not anymore.” Then he shrugs. “I like it here.”

 

“Well, I think it would be cool,” Erica says, turning her attention back to the TV. “I mean, look at her. She has it all.”

 

MTV is, in fact, playing music at the moment, if you can call it that—something by Kate Hunter.

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. This song could be so good, but she gives me the creeps.”

 

Isaac looks at the screen consideringly. “I don’t know, she’s kinda hot.”

 

“I’m with Stiles,” Boyd says. “Look at those fingernails. She looks like she wants to claw that guy’s heart right out of his chest.”

 

Ew. Now Stiles thinks about it, she does seem kind of bloodthirsty. “Derek? You wanna weigh in and be the tiebreaker?”

 

“I heard her new album is godawful,” Derek says, which doesn’t do much to break the tie, but somehow the conversation ends anyway.

 

*

 

November wears on, and Stiles and Derek put together a new show with some of Elvis’s holiday numbers, because who doesn’t love Christmas carols? Grinches, that’s who. Derek’s going to accompany himself on an acoustic guitar for a version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” which is bound to be a panty-dropper. Seriously, Stiles is thinking about pitching the idea of selling Derek-the-King-brand vibrators at the merch table after the show. Hell, he’d buy one.

 

He’s in the sound booth, going over his notes for their first Christmas performance, when Lydia pokes her head in the door. It’s the first time Stiles has seen her all week, since she’s been run off her feet prepping for a last-minute Kate Hunter concert at the Grand. “Where’s Derek? He’s not answering his phone.”

 

“Yeah, he forgot to charge it again and he left his charger at home,” Stiles says without looking up. “Why? What do you need?”

 

“His sister’s here to see him, apparently. I checked her ID,” she says off Stiles’s raised eyebrows. “Wanted to see if she could surprise him. Think you can lure him out?”

 

“You think I can be trusted with subtlety?” The idea is ridiculous.

 

“I think we’ll all live if you spoil the surprise.” Lydia rolls her eyes. “Meet us in the cafeteria?”

 

Well, it’s not like Derek ever turns down food.

 

Derek’s usually alone in his dressing room this time of day, doing whatever it is mysterious tortured types do when left to their own devices a few hours before a show. After lunch Stiles generally leaves him to his artistic brooding, lets him get into character or whatever, but he should have realized.

 

Derek’s a singer. Of course he spends the time before a concert warming up.

 

Stiles was not prepared for this.

 

He’s _used_ to Elvis Derek now, used to the hollow punched-out feeling he gets at the spectacle of it all, at the swivel of his hips and the curl of his mouth and the clear ring of his voice and the sheer emotion Derek can convey in a single syllable. It’s still hella fucking attractive, but it’s not like he can’t set that aside and do his job. And he’s used to the grumpier, closed-off regular Derek, who doesn’t say much but sometimes lets Stiles buy him ice cream or beat him at video games. Maybe Stiles likes him more than he’s admitted to, but he’s _managing it_. And as long as Stiles never had to reconcile the two, he probably would have gone on managing it indefinitely.

 

But Derek’s sitting in his dressing room in jeans and a T-shirt that’s actually begging for mercy from his straining biceps, a guitar in his lap, and strumming along to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

 

_But I’d rather go on hearing your lies_

_Than go on living without you._

 

And if _that_ doesn’t break Stiles’s heart into a million pieces. He swallows the lump in his throat and knocks on the door. “Hey. You wanna grab a bite?”

 

Derek looks up and meets his gaze, and Stiles takes a minute to be profoundly thankful he had time to prepare himself, because the knowledge hits him square in the chest. He’s falling in love with this quiet, stubborn, grumpy, ridiculously talented and attractive broken artist. What a cliché. “Didn’t we just have lunch?”

 

“Are you saying you’re not hungry?”

 

Stupid question. Derek’s always hungry. It’s a good thing he has access to the twenty-four-hour gym, or he’d never be able to fit into his glitter suit. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Derek says with a wry twist of his lips. He sets the guitar on its stand and grabs the key to his dressing room. “Lead the way.”

 

Stiles is pretty impressed that that worked. Maybe the fact that he just got completely blindsided by the feelings bus lent him some guile.

 

Guile that disappears completely when they walk into the cafeteria and Stiles starts scanning the tables for Lydia’s distinctive red mane.

 

“Expecting someone?” Derek asks in a voice drier than the Sahara.

 

“As a matter of fact—” Luckily, that’s when Stiles spots Lydia, and he grabs Derek’s wrist before he can escape and drags him over. The woman who must be his sister has her back to them, so all Stiles and Derek can see is the back of her head.

 

“Are you afraid I’m going to wander off?” Derek asks, amusement evident in his tone, but he doesn’t try to get away. “The dessert bar is the other way—”

 

Stiles stops in front of the table and pushes Derek in front of him with a grin. “Hey, Lydia. Look what I found.”

 

Predictably, Lydia rolls her eyes. But Derek freezes, and the pretty brunette at the table turns to them and smiles widely. “Hey, baby brother.”

 

*

 

Laura Hale is… not much like her brother. Well, other than the obvious winning of the genetic lottery thing and the fact that she’s also built like a brick shithouse—she owns her own construction company back in their hometown. She smiles a lot and takes great delight in teasing Derek, and when Stiles tops Derek’s offer of a ticket to the show with an offer to watch from the sound booth, she grins like a shark.

 

Probably because Derek’s eyes go wide like he’s imagining Laura showing Stiles embarrassing baby pictures. Which at this point would probably serve only to deepen the hole of oblivious pining Stiles has dug himself.

 

Formerly oblivious pining. Whatever.

 

It’s not long into their dessert before she starts giving Stiles the side-eye, and by the time he lets her into the sound booth so he can do his preshow checks, he’s bracing himself for the inquisition.

 

But it never comes, so Stiles figures he’ll turn the tables. He pushes back from the control board and fixes her with a stare. “So why visit now?” Because Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows how lonely Derek was when he first started doing the show, and Stiles knows he was in Vegas weeks before that.

 

Laura narrows her eyes, the same changing green as her brother’s, folds her hands, and swivels her chair so she’s facing him head-on. “Are you asking me why I’m here now or why I wasn’t here before?”

 

Stiles considers. “Both, I guess.”

 

She shrugs and breaks eye contact, scanning out over the empty theater. “I didn’t come because sometimes Derek needs to be alone. He needed to prove to himself he could do it without anyone else’s help. If I’d been here, I’d just have gotten in the way.”

 

Stiles had already had his mouth open to chastise her for leaving her brother in his moment of need, but now he closes it, because that… is completely Derek. “Okay. So why now?”

 

On a long sigh, Laura says, “His ex-girlfriend’s in town.”

 

 _Oh_. “How do you know?”

 

“Everyone knows.”

 

Before Stiles can ask her to clarify, Isaac appears on the stage for the beginnings of the sound check, and he has to go back to work. Laura mostly stays quiet for the rest of the evening, except to snort indelicately every time Derek does a wardrobe change, which Stiles can’t blame her for.

 

“At least he doesn’t have to wax his chest anymore,” she says with a little smirk at intermission. “He really hated that.”

 

Stiles makes an involuntary noise and tries not to think about Derek’s chest, hairy or otherwise. It takes so much of his concentration that he forgets to ask about Derek’s ex.

 

*

 

Stiles and Derek are on the sky bridge between the Grand and New York, New York when it happens. Stiles had finally convinced his BFF, Scott, the veterinarian on staff at the Grand, to take a long lunch away from his big cats in order to meet Derek. (Scott once named a baby lion born on his watch Siegfried. Stiles and Scott are soul brothers—Scott’s opinion is important.)

 

All in all, Stiles thinks the meeting went fairly well. Scott’s only comment when Derek left to use the restroom was “Dude, hot,” upon which he held out his hand for a fist-bump.

 

Stiles said, “Oh my God, can you not,” and tried not to die of mortification that his crush was so obvious to everyone who wasn’t him and possibly Derek.

 

But that was an hour ago, and now they’re meandering back to the Luxor so Stiles can set up for tonight’s concert. He’s midrant on one of his favorite topics, why Marvel films are better than DC franchises, when he notices he’s lost Derek.

 

And then he turns around and sees the throng.

 

Well, by Vegas standards it’s not a throng, really. More of an entourage. But Stiles sees the woman at the center of it, a cool-looking blonde with one hand wrapped around Derek’s wrist, and puts it all together.

 

Derek looks like he wants to die.

 

That settles that. Stiles takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and darts into the fray. “Babe, what are you doing?” He slips his arm around Derek’s free one and prays Derek won’t blow their cover. “You’ve got a contract renegotiation with Lydia in like half an hour. You know what she’s like when you’re late.”

 

Kate Hunter raises her eyebrow at Derek— _ouch_ , Stiles thinks—before turning her disaffected gaze on Stiles. “And who might you be?”

 

“Could ask you the same thing,” Stiles says, pretending not to recognize her. But he doesn’t have to fake the little bit of jealousy he lets her see as he eyes her hand on Derek’s arm.

 

She takes his measure. Stiles can tell she doesn’t know whether he’s lying about not recognizing her, and if the way the corner of her mouth twitches and pulls down is any indication, it pisses her off. Good. “Kate Hunter,” she finally says frostily, reaching out a hand. Apparently the fact that there are civilians around is enough to keep her from saying whatever it is she might say otherwise. A few people have camera phones out to snap pictures; over her shoulder, Stiles can see a group that looks to be scavenging in someone’s purse for a pen.

 

Stiles shakes her hand coolly and fights the urge to wipe it on his pants afterward. “Oh, of course,” he says. “Derek mentioned he knew you, but you look older in person. I’m Stiles. Stilinski.” What the hell, he might as well commit to the lie. “Derek’s boyfriend.”

 

Derek slips his arm out from Stiles’s only to lace their fingers together instead, but apparently words are beyond him, because he doesn’t say anything.

 

“We really have to go,” Stiles says, faux apologetic. He’d love to tell her exactly what he thinks of her, her music, and what she did to Derek, but not at the expense of letting her believe Derek still thinks about her. “Still need to run sound check after that meeting with Lydia, right, babe?”

 

Derek musters up most of a smile. “You’d never let me start the show unprepared.”

 

 _Atta boy_. Stiles feels like he should pat him on the back for the effort.

 

Unfortunately, Kate takes that opening to get in a little dig at Derek. “Right, of course.” She smirks. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize your livelihood.”

 

 _Asshole._ But Stiles just snorts a laugh. “Sweetie”— _oh_ , she doesn’t like that, not by the look on her face—“Derek’s got a solid gig as an Elvis impersonator three nights a week at a snazzy hotel in Vegas, the Mecca of Elvis impersonators. And I hear he’s a pretty good songwriter too, not that I’m much judge.” He bumps Derek’s shoulder with his own. “If he wanted to be somewhere else, he’d be somewhere else. Besides,” he adds, tugging on Derek’s hand to lead him away, “at least here in Vegas, his billboard is bigger than yours.”

 

Derek makes a soft noise under his breath. Stiles doesn’t dare look at him. If he does, he’s either going to laugh or turn around and punch Kate Hunter in her stupid smarmy face. After a step, Derek looks back over his shoulder and waves his free hand. “Nice seeing you!”

 

 Stiles does laugh this time, hoping the cringe of his shoulders shaking will be imperceptible from behind.

 

It’s still hot out—it’s _Vegas_ —and their hands are sweaty, but Derek doesn’t let go until they’re in the lobby at the Luxor. Stiles tries desperately not to read into it. Derek’s emotionally vulnerable right now and needs Stiles for support. But the moment is starting to stretch into awkwardness, and he needs to stop that before things get serious. “Ugh,” he complains, frowning down at himself. “This is my favorite T-shirt and now I have to burn it.”

 

“Don’t lie, the Captain America one is your favorite,” Derek says to Stiles’s feet. But all Stiles hears is _thanks._

 

Stiles is so utterly, completely gone on him that it’s not even funny. _You’re welcome_ , he wants to say, or _Any time_.

 

Instead he offers, “You are way too good for that creep. Now come on, it’s your turn to buy me a popsicle.”

 

*

 

The once-a-week Elvis Christmas carols are scheduled to start at Thanksgiving, and the costume and stage managers even came up with the requisite props and an extremely hilarious red-and-green sequined jumpsuit Stiles absolutely does not post photos of on Facebook.

 

He thinks Derek’s a little sad he won’t be able to go home at Christmas this year—they’ve got performances scheduled the day before and the day after—but he hasn’t figured out how to invite Derek to Christmas to meet his dad without it sounding like he’s inviting Derek to Christmas to meet his dad.

 

Even Stiles has trouble following that logic.

 

Anyway, the day before Thanksgiving he’s making his way to Derek’s dressing room, because he’s a sucker for punishment like that, immersed in a game of Candy Crush. He’s paying it so much attention that he doesn’t notice Derek’s dressing room door is open until he’s standing in front of it, listening to the music that’s escaping.

 

Derek usually warms up in his Elvis voice, even if he’s not in costume, but not today. Today it’s just him in ripped jeans and a faded green Henley with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, sitting sideways on the tiny love seat with his bare feet up, singing “[And I Love You So](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qog65XHM-ok)” like he doesn’t know Stiles is standing right there with his heart bleeding on the floor.

 

And maybe he doesn’t. He’s sort of staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Stiles takes the moment for what it is, and shoves his phone away, and lets himself wonder what it might be like if all that emotion in Derek’s voice was actually for him.

 

_And I love you so._

_The people ask me how,_

_How I’ve lived till now._

_I tell them I don’t know._

 

Stiles should go. He should really, _really_ go, because he can’t take this anymore. But he can’t seem to move his legs, or swallow the lump in his throat, or do anything but listen and watch with his heart in his eyes.

 

When Derek gets to “And you love me too,” Stiles is still rooted to the spot with everything he’s feeling written on his face. Which is a problem, because the line _physically hurts him_ , to the point where he can’t keep in a quiet noise of agony.

 

Derek turns his head and makes eye contact, and there’s no way he can’t tell exactly how bad Stiles has it. Not after all these months. And Stiles can’t move, can’t turn away, can’t do anything other than curl his hands into fists and lick his lips as he searches frantically for anything to say. Nothing comes to mind.

 

Derek puts down the guitar, crosses the room in three steps, and presses Stiles into a kiss that leaves him flush against the wall, knees watery, hands grasping weakly at Derek’s forearms. He makes the noise again and Derek chases it with his tongue, and his hand comes up to cup Stiles’s cheek, and the whole universe rotates half a degree counter-clockwise and clicks into place.

 

When he can’t breathe anymore for the sweetness, Stiles pulls away, only to find that he has a double handful of Derek’s gorgeous hair. He scritches his nails over Derek’s scalp just to watch Derek close his eyes in pleasure. “You’re right, you know,” he says, surprisingly hoarse.

 

Derek opens his eyes. Then he leans back, takes Stiles’s right hand, presses a kiss to his palm, all without breaking eye contact. “Yeah?”

 

Stiles’s grin feels like it might break his face. “Yeah.” He pushes off the wall so he can brush their noses together.

 

Derek kisses him with his whole body until they’re staying upright mostly by force of habit, but sadly pulls away before Stiles can come in his pants at the perfect friction.

 

Stiles clears his throat and glances down significantly, then meets Derek’s hooded gaze. “So,” he says conversationally, “want to try some alternative voice warm-ups?”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all [lielabell](http://lielabell.tumblr.com)'s fault. [She said](lielabell.tumblr.com/post/67477542469/so-its-possible-that-after-reading-unchained):
> 
> So it’s possible that after reading Unchained Melody by uraneia, which features an Elvis impersonator!Derek and a sound and lighting engineer!Stiles, I might maybe have spent the whole ride into work listening to the Elvis channel. And I might maybe be convinced that Derek sings Dontcha Think It’s Time to Stiles every night as the encore to his act. 
> 
> And Stiles melts each and every time.
> 
> Que sex in the green room, Stiles’s hands all up in Derek’s hair as he rides him, his lips brushing Derek’s cheek, voice broken as he tells Derek he’s his and his alone. 
> 
>  
> 
> And, well. Like I could resist THAT.

The first time Derek plays “[Doncha Think It’s Time](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0DJLiD8Wms)” as his encore, with substantially less audience interaction and a lot more unsubtle staring at Stiles’s control room, Stiles flushes so hard he feels it on the _inside_ , right up against his rib cage. It’s like weirdly pleasant acid reflux. 

 

By the time he has the boards shut down for the night, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica are already changed into street clothes, hanging Derek’s dressing room door. As soon as she spots him, Erica smirks and waves a cheeky salute to Derek before running her fingers through Stiles’s hair. “See you later, Stilinski.” And she unsubtly shoves Boyd and Isaac down the hall in front of her.

 

In Erica’s defense, there’s not much subtle about the way Stiles launches himself at Derek either.

 

Derek catches him under his thighs and somehow wrangles the door closed, and five minutes later they’re naked and breathless and Derek has three fingers buried in Stiles’s ass.

 

“Hell _yes_ I think it’s fucking _time_ ,” Stiles chokes out more or less into Derek’s mouth as he manages to slide a condom on him one-handed.

 

Derek snorts and crooks his fingers, and Stiles shudders around a groan. “Shut up, that was a _great_ pun—”

 

His breath leaves him when Derek pulls his fingers out, but Stiles decides to forgive him since he’s slicking his cock instead. Stiles sinks down feeling extremely pleased with himself, Derek, and the world in general, and he only feels _more_ pleased with himself a few hours and another round later, when he has Derek tucked around him in his bed. Life is good.

 

*

 

The encore becomes a thing.

 

It’s not always “[Doncha Think It’s Time](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0DJLiD8Wms)”—Derek likes to mix it up depending on his mood—but it’s always for Stiles. Sometimes it’s “[True Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WtyjeTDojA4),” sometimes “[Young and Beautiful](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8tNovSFjuw).” Once, after a fight, he sings “[Always on My Mind](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVRbtM9EXmA)” instead, and Stiles almost ugly-cries all over the (very sensitive) sound board. The week after that, he does “[Teddy Bear](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhKIueTLfrw),” no trace of his Elvis persona in sight, and Stiles basically melts into his chair.

 

The night he chooses “[Love Me Tender](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76We6yBnIKE),” Stiles takes him home and spends twenty minutes worshipping his dick while fingering him open until he’s panting quietly at the ceiling, before sliding inside and leaning up to lick the moans from his lips.  

 

But it’s usually “Doncha Think It’s Time” or “[Can’t Help Falling in Love,](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtPKTX7mLBo)” because Derek is an enormous sap. Stiles has never had a boyfriend who made it a point to declare his love in front of a thousand people three times a week before, but it is seriously awesome. And they usually don’t make it all the way back to Stiles’s place before they have their hands all over each other.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, burying both hands in Derek’s hair and holding his face to his neck, where he’s sucking a really fantastic hickey. “You want me to say it?” he whispers, rubbing his nose over Derek’s cheekbone, heedless of the stubble.

 

Derek releases the skin of his neck only to redouble his efforts to make Stiles’s brain melt out his ears via his prostate, pulls back so they can lean their foreheads together.

 

Stiles’s breath catches on a particularly deep thrust. Derek says, “Stiles.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles repeats. His thighs are burning and his dick is leaking and he basically has permanent bruises in the shape of Derek’s hands on his hips, and he’s about thirty seconds from nuclear meltdown. “I’m yours, only—only yours, Derek, I—”

 

Derek makes a broken sound and swallows the rest of the words, which is fine. Stiles probably couldn’t have choked them out past his orgasm anyway.

 

Later, when they’re still filthy but more horizontal as they wait for higher brain function to return, Stiles pillows his chin on his hands on Derek’s chest and says, “You’re coming to Christmas at mine.”

 

Derek hums in agreement, then goes silent for a moment before asking, “Think you can take a couple days off in February?”

 

Stiles doesn’t ask what for. He just puts his head back down and laces the fingers of his left hand with Derek’s right. “I think that can be arranged.”


End file.
